


Louder Than Words

by handmepleaseacity



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Sex, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drunk Sex, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Misunderstandings, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-23 18:53:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1575959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handmepleaseacity/pseuds/handmepleaseacity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I fucked Bahorel,” Feuilly said, aiming at sounding casual and relaxed but ending up somewhere between slightly panicky and scared shitless. "Well, technically, he fucked me."</p><p>(Or, the one where Bahorel and Feuilly sleep together more or less unintentionally and a journey to self-discovery ensues.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is stolen from Sunday by Bloc Party.

When Feuilly woke up to find himself pressed against a lump of a human he had little difficulty figuring out where he was and what had happened. During years of close friendship he had memorized every detail of that body: the way it spread around warmth, the mellow texture of skin, the mop of dark, unruly hair. For a few seconds Feuilly had to fight against the urge to run his hand along the curve of Bahorel’s spine, to feel the map of birthmarks and tattoos with the tips of his fingers. He shook the thought out of his head.

The memories from last night came back right after. It had been a Friday, the last Friday of the month, which meant Feuilly’s payday, and because of that they had had one of their endless reality-tv marathons on Bahorel’s long-suffering couch. On his way from work to Bahorel's, Feuilly had collected the most important equipment; salami-double-cheese barbeque pizza and a six-pack of beer. Not bothering with plates or glasses they had devoured a slice after slice until all that was left was an empty package with grease stains, and opened a bottle after bottle, drinking beer as if it were water. That was when things had been still as they always were, and the bit where they started to argue about the ownership of the remote control had been nothing out of ordinary either (Bahorel was determined to watch reruns of Project Runway, Feuilly would have preferred nearly anything else), and nor had been the play-fight that had evolved into full wrestling.

At some point of said wrestling, very normal wrestling, extremely-brotherly-and-nothing-peculiar-and-certainly-nothing-sexual-about-this wrestling, Bahorel had managed to pin Feuilly against the worn leather. Feuilly had tried to regain control of the situation while Bahorel was grinning down at him, the thought of victory clear on his face. The sharp edge of Bahorel’s belt had pressed into the softness of Feuilly’s hip, Feuilly's shirt having been hitched up in the process, revealing milk-white skin and multiple constellations of freckles, and yeah, that was all very normal too. But what wasn’t normal was Feuilly’s sudden, violent urge to wipe the smug grin off Bahorel’s face, and before he could consider his plans more carefully he had closed the distance between them, pressing his lips against Bahorel’s.

“Shit. Shit shit shit shit,” muttered Feuilly as memories kept coming back to him, memories of kissing and sucking and biting and… well, memories of various other things. He could see fresh bruises forming on his delicate skin, and while some of them could have been explained by the fight, some of them most certainly would not. No innocent wrestling would explain the bite marks on his inner tight, either. Then again, luckily no one would get a chance to see his inner tights. Well, no one except Bahorel, apparently.

And that’s where it all came crushing down to. Bahorel. Bahorel and him, fucking. And not some quick handjob either but an old-fashioned, well-performed shag.

“Bahorel’s going to kill me,” Feuilly muttered miserably.

And not only for the shagging-your-best-friend-while-drunk-part but also because Bahorel had a rule of tearing anyone who dared to wake him up before 2 PM to very small and painful pieces regretting their existence. But since this was clearly an emergency, exception was probably in order. Besides, if Bahorel did actually kill him, they would not have to have the conversation they were apparently otherwise going to have. A total win-win-situation, all things considered. Letting out an ear-shattering shout Feuilly slapped Bahorel hard on the shoulder and watched in horror as he, muttering a curse under his breath, rolled over to face Feuilly, his eyes still screwed shut.

“What time is it?” Bahorel asked.

“Never mind the time!” Feuilly screamed. “We fucked!”

The bastard had a nerve to burst into a low laughter. “Yeah, I can sort of tell from the fact that you’re in my bed, and we're both naked.”

The ridiculous thing was that they were indeed in Bahorel's bed and not on the couch where it had all begun. And what was more, Feuilly remembered full well there had been logical reasoning behind that decision: during a brief argument between kisses and bites, when Bahorel's hands were buried in Feuilly's hair and Feuilly tasted the salty flavour of Bahorel's sweat on his tongue, they had arrived to the conclusion that Bahorel's mattress was far more comfortable than the narrow and much abused couch, and therefore a place to which they should definitely relocate themselves. And that, at least, should have been impossible, because last night was supposed to be all about stupid decisions, and judging by how Feuilly's back wasn't sore like it so often was after spending a night on that terrible couch, moving their operation to Bahorel's bed had been a very smart decision. It didn’t change the fact that Feuilly's back ached for multiple other reasons, though. His joints cracked impossibly as he stretched his limbs, not taking his eyes off Bahorel.

“You’re not mad?” Feuilly asked eventually.

“Why would I be mad?” Bahorel asked back.

Feuilly shrugged. “I don’t know, I guess I thought fucking a guy would be one of those things that shattered your carefully constructed alpha male ego.”

“As if!” Bahorel snorted. “My, and pay attention to the following adjective, natural alpha male ego is not that easily shaken.” He leaned forward and ruffled Feuilly’s hair. “Seriously, Feuilly, we’ve known each other, what, billion years? We’ve done pretty much everything together and well, I guess it was just bound to happen one day. That’s just how it goes; first come shared pints, then shared bar fights, and then at some point you accidentally sleep together. That’s, like, the basic progression order for manly friendship.”

Feuilly shook his head. “No, I really don’t think that’s how it works.”

Bahorel's hand flew to his chest in a gesture of mock-hurt. “No? I can’t believe you’ve never heard of it, it’s totally a thing! Thank fuck you’ve got me to educate you.”

“Yeah, thanks a lot, I'm definitely in great debt to you,” Feuilly sighed. Somewhere deep in his brain he registered that of all the things he could possibly be, he was, in fact, simply relieved. The single more fearsome outcome than Bahorel murdering him in a cruel way would have been Bahorel starting to treat him differently, Bahorel disgusted by him, Bahorel not wanting to see him ever again. A soft laughter begun to climb up Feuilly’s throat, and soon they were both doubled over, trying hard to breathe (to little avail) and wiping tears from their eyes.

“So, just rechecking, we’re okay?” Feuilly asked when he finally managed to collect himself and get his lungs to work properly.

Bahorel looked at him, Feuilly could find no other words to describe it to himself, _fondly_. Fond glances were probably another part of Bahorel’s idea of manly friendship, and it suited Feuilly just fine.

“Yes, you ginger poof,” Bahorel answered, and his smile turned mischievous. “Besides, you weren’t half bad, you know, all those soft moans of my name, begging me to take you…”

“Fuck you, filthy wanker!” Feuilly threw a pillow at Bahorel who caught it and flung it right back at Feuilly, hitting him on the head.

“Yeah, I think that sums up last night quite correctly,” Bahorel said languidly, stretching his arms.

Feuilly couldn’t decide whether he wanted to punch Bahorel, flip him off, or, well, do something else entirely, something he wasn’t completely sure of, so he ended up burying his reddening face to the blanket while Bahorel laughed so hard it sounded like he was suffocating.

“C’mon, I’ll make us coffee,” Bahorel said when he had finally calmed down and was able to produce complete sentences without bursting into a violent fit of laughter.

Feuilly took the blanket off his face. “That’s very sweet of you,” he said. “But first, be kind and put some pants on.”

* * *

They were sipping their coffees, sitting cross-legged on the couch that Feuilly now labelled in his mind as “the crime scene”. Bahorel had had it as long a Feuilly could remember; according to Bahorel he had found it in a skip just a few months before university, and he’d been unable to, as he himself put it, leave it to suffer the cold loneliness of a dump pit. (“What if there had been no other couches? Or no other furniture at all? I just couldn’t, I had to save it!”) Bahorel had dragged it to each of his different flats – usually taking advantage of Feuilly and Grantaire’s helpful nature and biceps. Over the years hauling the miserable lump of leather up and down various stairwells had however become more and more easy as their chosen family had taken shape and widened, and they now had an access to quite an amount of helpful hands. Bahorel had definitely given the couch a new life; during those years it had witnessed various life events of each member of Les Amis.

And now the couch had had to witness their inelegant fumbling when Feuilly had tried to get out of his jeans and Bahorel had bitten his lower lip so hard he had tasted blood in his mouth and Feuilly had gripped Bahorel’s locks and Bahorel had slipped a hand under his shirt and made Feuilly shudder and moan and pant underneath him.

Secretly it only made Feuilly like the couch all the more.

He hoped the couch wasn't traumatised beyond repair, though.

Bahorel cleared his throat. The words that followed came across like a slap across Feuilly's face, or worse than slap across the face, because Bahorel had never slapped him in order to really hurt him.

“If it makes you feel any better, we can pretend it never happened,” Bahorel said, and then hurried to add, “It’s not like it’s ever going to happen again, so don’t get too worked up over it.”

Feuilly nodded weakly.

“Just think that we were, like, terribly drunk,” Bahorel continued. “So fucking wasted it’s a miracle we even remember what happened because honestly, all that beer?” He shook his head. “All I’m saying is, don’t think about it too much.”

Feuilly drank the rest his coffee in one gulp, the taste that once was delicious now turning to bitter.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.”

* * *

Feuilly went through the rest of the weekend in a haze, working double-shifts at the factory on both days and trying to think about Friday night and Saturday morning as little as possible. After finishing his coffee and using Bahorel's toothbrush to brush his teeth, he had taken a quick shower. He had used Bahorel's shampoo to wash his hair and his shower gel to scrub every inch of his body, knowing full well that the marks from previous night could not be washed down the drain. It had not stopped him from trying. Bahorel had made clear that what they had no meaning and no future, and maybe, if Feuilly tried hard enough, he could feel the same. He had stepped out of the shower, and instantly regretted using the same products as Bahorel, because they made Feuilly even smell like him, fucking hell.

Feuilly had stood in front of the sink, a towel around his waist, and held his boxers from the previous day in his hands. He had felt the once sticky but now dried stains of cum on the fabric, and dreaded putting them back on. But then he'd heard a rap of knuckles against the door and there was Bahorel, offering him a stack of clean cotton. Feuilly had accepted the clothes thankfully; the thought of putting his boxers back on was disgusting, and his t-shirt was far from presentable as well, even if he had to ride the metro only for a few stops.

When he had arrived home he had hopped on the kitchen counter and stared at the white wall opposite him until the time came for him to leave for work.

Half of his lunch break had been already over, and he was sitting on the narrow stool of the cafeteria, trying to enjoy his pathetic excuse of a sandwich, when the strap of the black wife-beater he had borrowed from Bahorel had slipped from his left shoulder for the fourth time, and as he put down his coffee mug and lifted the strap back up again he had realized that this had to be the first time he had ever worn Bahorel's clothes. Wide neckline was an attestation of their difference in size, and suddenly he had been laughing, wheezing desperately, causing several of his work mates to lift their eyes from their lunch boxes and bottles of coke, which had only made Feuilly laugh louder. But thinking about Bahorel's shirt had made him think about the other borrowed piece of clothing he was wearing, and his laughter had died out as quickly as it had begun. He had finished his sandwich without letting out a sound and returned to the production line, trying to ignore the feeling of the seam of Bahorel's boxers digging into his skin.

When Monday morning finally dawned, Feuilly welcomed it almost cheerfully. His alarm clock started beeping at half past eight and opening his eyes felt like a relief; he had been tossing around in his bed for what felt like hours, unable to find a comfortable position, his duvet feeling too warm and heavy but every time he threw it away he started to shiver and had to pull it back on. At half eight he was allowed to stop trying to sleep, and there was still plenty of time to shave and shower. He stood under the steaming-hot spray longer than he could really afford to, dried himself and left wet footprints on the floor as he paced to kitchen and turned the coffee machine on. After carefully sipping the steaming beverage and scanning news headlines on his laptop, it was finally time to catch a metro to university and hurry to his morning class.

Feuilly had been sitting half an hour in their oil-painting class, less than forty centimetres from Grantaire, close enough to hear the other man humming under his breath, when he finally plucked up enough courage to tell him about the incident.

“I fucked Bahorel,” Feuilly said, aiming at sounding casual and relaxed but ending up somewhere between slightly panicky and scared shitless.

Grantaire’s eyebrows disappeared under his fringe, but he didn’t take his eyes off the canvas in front of him and kept adding more tiny brushes of carmine to the background. The figure resembled, as always, a certain revolutionary blond with strong opinions and impressive rhetoric skills.

“Well, technically”, Feuilly continued, “He fucked me. But you know. You can probably do without details.”

Grantaire nodded. “Probably. And you can probably stop freaking out. It’s not the end of the world.”

“No?” Feuilly asked, then added quickly, “Who says I’m freaking out, I’m not freaking out.”

Grantaire barked a laugh. “If I hadn’t seen you walk into class this morning I would have congratulated someone on making a sculpture of incredible likeness. You’ve hardly moved a muscle since the class begun, of course I can see something's off, but I just assumed you would talk about it when you felt like talking about it.”

Feuilly had to admit that there was some truth to what Grantaire was saying. “Yeah, well, I think I’m entitled to freak out a bit, I wasn’t exactly planning on shagging Bahorel.”

“Well, it’s not like you’re the only one,” Grantaire shrugged. “I know for a fact that Jehan’s slept with Bahorel a few times, and I think I’ve too, and we’re still like, best friends forever.”

Feuilly nearly dropped the paintbrush he was holding.

“You’ve never told me!” he exclaimed.

Grantaire only grinned. What an absolute wanker. “What’s there to tell? As I said, I’m not one hundred per cent sure we ever did, I mean, we were both ridiculously drunk, it’s not one of my clearest memories,” he explained. “And I'd imagine you weren’t exactly sober either.”

Feuilly shook his head. “We weren’t drunk, per se,” he confessed. Grantaire had already put the whole picture together anyway. “Sure, we’d had a few beers but nothing unusual, I knew full well what I was doing.”

“And you’re afraid he didn’t.” It wasn’t a question.

Feuilly let out a rare, bitter chuckle. “I’m not afraid, and besides, I can’t be afraid of something that I know for a fact.”

Grantaire fixed a curious look at him.

“I mean, I know that he knows what we were doing, we drank about the same amount and his tolerance is far better than mine, you know that, come on, he’s the size of an average mountain. And we did actually talk about it in the morning, but he really overplayed the ‘we were drunk and that explains everything’-part, and it’s just that…”

Feuilly tried to convert his thoughts into a sentence that would make even the tiniest bit of sense.

“It’s just that he, well, he doesn’t exactly regret it, but to him it doesn't mean anything. Yeah, it happened, but so what? Everyone fools around every now and then. That’s how he sees it,” he ended up saying, not daring to meet Grantaire's eye. He stared at his palette instead, trying to mix a perfect shade of ochre. There's was still too much yellow in it, no matter how much brown he added, but if Grantaire had noticed the ridiculous amount of time he had spent on a single shade, and of course he had, he didn't comment on it.

“And how do you see it?” Grantaire asked.

When Feuilly answered Grantaire’s question, his voice didn't sound like his at all. “I have no idea.”

For a space of few seconds Grantaire stared intensely at his canvas, not moving a muscle. Feuilly cursed himself for speaking too quietly, because frankly, he would have preferred pretty much anything, like getting run over by a herd of enthusiastic tourists at the feet of the Eiffel Tower on the sunniest day of the summer, to having to repeat the words he'd just uttered.

But then Grantaire sighed and turned to look at Feuilly. “Oh, I think you have some idea,” he said. “And I think that idea is something you can't just brush aside.”

For the rest of the class they worked in relative silence, Grantaire occasionally humming a tune or another as he kept adding careful brushes of colour to his canvas, Feuilly doing a pathetic job at finding the right shades of colours, his mind running in circles.


	2. Chapter 2

Tuesday night was the night of Les Amis' weekly meeting, and when Feuilly stepped through the entrance of Café Musain he was greeted by the familiar smell of crisps and cheap red wine. Even though he came straight from work and the shift had been more than exhausting, he was looking forward to sitting down with his friends and listening to their idle chatter, as well as Enjolras and Combeferre's well-prepared PowerPoint presentations. After dropping his coat to the rack by the doorway, Feuilly heard someone call his name, and as he turned around he spotted Courfeyrac leaning to the bar, guarding a tray filled with a peculiar mix of steaming mugs and tall glasses.

“I’m here to get drinks,” Courfeyrac said when Feuilly got close enough for them to talk without raising their voices. “You want anything?”

“You really don’t have to ‒“ Feuilly begun, but Courfeyrac wouldn’t hear his attempts at refusal.

 “Well, if you really insist, I could do with a lager,” Feuilly eventually gave in.

“Good!” Courfeyrac said cheerfully. “You don't have to wait for me, just go ahead, I think I’ll be able to get all of these upstairs without dropping or breaking anything.”

“Okay,” Feuilly smiled. “See you in a bit,” he said, and begun to navigate toward the stairs at the back of the café, zigzagging between groups of narrow tables and stools and people occupying them.

Most of the gang had already taken their usual positions when Feuilly reached the upper level. Enjolras and Combeferre were standing behind the table at the front, Combeferre going through a stack of papers, Enjolras doing some last-minute adjustments to his presentation. Éponine, Jehan, Marius and Cosette were sitting at a table near the front, Cosette and Jehan braiding Marius’ soft strands into the tiniest plaits, Éponine shaking his head at Marius’ nervous giggles. Bossuet, oddly alone, was sitting in the middle of the room, and after nodding a greeting to the duo at the front and waving at the quartet sitting at their table, Feuilly made his way to Bossuet.

“Odd seeing you without your additional limbs,” Feuilly commented in a way of greeting.

“Don’t worry, I won’t be without them for too long, Musichetta’s on her way to pick Joly up from the hospital and they should both be here in a minute,” Bossuet replied.

As Feuilly drew himself a chair and sat down next to Bossuet, Courfeyrac had reached the end of the stairs with his massive set of beverages. He circled around the room placing everyone’s order in front of them, stopping to pinch Bossuet's cheek and to place a kiss on Marius' forehead before going to the front to join the conversation Combeferre and Enjolras were having.

“So, what’s got your panties in a twist?” Bossuet asked, taking a sip of his drink.

Feuilly sighed, staring at his own glass. “Am I really so obvious that everyone can take one look at me and tell that I’m upset?” he asked, not unkindly.

“Not really,” Bossuet replied. “You just look very, very tired. And believe me, I’ve seen you look tired more times than I can count, no surprise there, with that schedule of yours… But at the moment, those eye bags, they are pretty phenomenal.”

Feuilly nodded. “I haven’t really been able to sleep for a couple of nights,” he confessed. Thank goodness Bahorel hadn’t arrived yet.

“And why’s that?”

It took Feuilly a few moments to come up with a reply. “I don’t really know how much I can tell. It's not just about me, and I don’t know how he'd feel about me retailing this to pretty much everyone. So let’s just say that Bahorel and I had an accident.”

At the word ‘accident’ Bossuet’s eyes lit up. “An accident!” he exclaimed. “Well, you’ve come to the right tree, I know all about accidents. Honestly, sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and remember that I still haven’t received any kind of acknowledgement for the research I’ve made in the name of science, and that always makes me incredibly sad.”

Feuilly's smile was genuine. “Yeah, right,” he said. “But when this kind of accident happens to you, it isn't really an accident, so I'm not sure if it counts.”

Bossuet gaped at him. “Feuilly, you can’t leave a story hanging like that, you’re killing me here, I have to know what happened. You can't be this cruel!”

Determined, Feuilly shook his head.

Bossuet gave him a look that was probably supposed to be persuasive. Perhaps it worked on Musichetta or Joly.

“I’m not going to give you details!” Feuilly laughed.

“I swear I won’t tell a living soul, and not a dead one, either.” Bossuet whispered conspiratorially. “Well, Joly and Musichetta at the most, I promise!”

Feuilly considered his options for a moment. Would Bossuet, Musichetta and Joly knowing about it really make any difference? Grantaire already knew, and well, with their tiny circle of friends, it was only a matter of time before everyone else knew too. Not telling Bossuet would only be a futile attempt to avoid the inevitable.

“Okay, listen carefully,” he said, taking a long sip of his drink. “Because I’m not going to repeat this multiple times. You have sex with your best friends on purpose.” He took a short pause, and then continued, “Bahorel and I, well, we may have done that a few nights ago, but with us it was not on purpose. So, an accident. There. No you know.”

Bossuet looked way too delighted for his own good. “You had sex with Bahorel?” he asked, trying his best to keep his voice down, but not succeeding particularly well.

“Yes,” Feuilly admitted.

“And now you have not been able to sleep because you can’t get Bahorel out of your head, is that it?”

Feuilly came very close to strangling Bossuet then and there, but in the end he just nodded. Bossuet let out a gleeful squeal. “Oh my god, you have to tell Joly, you know how much he loves playing a psychotherapist and occasional relationship consultant!”

Feuilly buried his face in his hands and wondered why he had thought telling Bossuet would be good idea. At the same time he heard a brigade of cheerful greetings coming from the direction of stairs, and when he looked up he saw red-cheeked Joly and Musichetta enter the room, and right behind them Grantaire, followed by Bahorel.

“Look who we found on our way here!” Joly cried, gesturing at Bahorel and Grantaire as he made his way to the centre of the room. Feuilly glanced over to Bahorel, and the absolute wanker had the nerve to wink his eye and blow a kiss at Feuilly before guiding Grantaire towards a free table near the stairs. Feuilly crossed his arms over his chest, his cheeks and forehead burning with embarrassment. That Bahorel would like to forget the whole thing and act like nothing had happened was understandable, but that he would add the experience to the list of the subjects of their daily banter was way out of line. Feuilly shot a murderous glance at him and turned his back to the table Bahorel and Grantaire had chosen to settle to. Next to Feuilly, Joly was rubbing his cheek against Bossuet’s while Musichetta was up at the front, helping Enjolras with the document camera and making some last-minute suggestions.

Feuilly knew giving Bahorel the silent treatment was nothing but ridiculous, really. As Bahorel had so elegantly put it, they had known each other for about a billion years, and during all those years they had never really went more than a couple of days without speaking. It didn't matter whether they talked on the phone or went out for burgers or emailed each other their top 40 corgi gifs, they were _always_ communicating on some level. Ignoring Bahorel would not improve his mood, because Bahorel was the only person who always knew how to cheer Feuilly up.

After a few minutes Musichetta returned to their table and slipped to the chair between her boyfriends. “Now that everyone’s finally arrived,” Enjolras begun, “We can finally get on with tonight’s agenda. We’re starting with a short look at our latest attempt at collaboration with MRAP…”

Feuilly was grateful that the beginning of the official meeting had interrupted his conversation with Bossuet, because discussing Bahorel was something he was not willing to do in the presence of the discussion topic himself. He concentrated on Enjolras' speech instead, which was easy, because sometimes Enjolras moved from one issue to another at such a quick pace that the listeners had to really pay attention to him in order to follow. Enjolras didn't welcome futile interruptions, but paused frequently to ask Feuilly’s as well as the others’ opinions on different topics, and listened to their comments and propositions with interest.

Every once in a while Feuilly heard a familiar snort or giggle from the table behind him, and his mind would provide him with an exact image of Bahorel’s current expression, but no matter how much he longed to hear the words Bahorel was whispering to Grantaire and what made him laugh like that, Feuilly refused to turn around and face him. He kept his eyes fixed to the front, and took occasional sips of his drink, even though the beverage got warmer and less tempting as the meeting proceeded.

* * *

When the meeting was finally wrapped up, Feuilly remained at his seat and accepted Joly's offer of buying him a drink. He wasn't especially keen on continuing the conversation he had been having with Bossuet before the meeting had begun in earnest, but he wasn't especially keen on going home just yet either. There would be nothing but an empty bed and his own thoughts to keep him company.

Bahorel and Grantaire had already left, but whether they had gone home or abandoned the Musain in the search of another bar, Feuilly didn't know. He had tried hard not to stare at Bahorel's back as he'd ascended the stair, laughing so fiercely at something Grantaire had said that he had had to lean to the shorter man for support to stop himself from doubling over and possibly falling down the stairs.

After Joly had returned with their drinks, Feuilly had briefed him and Musichetta about the situation. Just like Bossuet had predicted, Joly had been overly excited about the opportunity to give advice. He had even taken out his pad and put on his 'I am a trustworthy medical professional'-glasses, and started jotting down notes as Feuilly's story went on. Musichetta had, as always, offered the physical comfort she knew the best, which meant that she had affectionately elbowed Feuilly in the ribs, then patted his head and giggled at his anguished grimace as he'd rubbed his side. Feuilly feared the day Musichetta would finally carry out her threat about ditching her saxophone lessons and take up Grantaire's offer of a crash course in kickboxing.

For a better part of an hour the three of them had come up with different suggestions about how to best solve the problem, even though Feuilly kept insisting that there was no problem and therefore nothing to solve, and that he was only feeling a bit down, nothing more. (“But darling, you feeling a bit down is a problem,” Musichetta had said, and Joly and Bossuet had nodded firmly.) One of her suggested solutions had been listening to sad pop music (“I can make you a playlist with lots of The Smiths and Joanna Newsom, maybe a pinch of The National, how does that sound?”), Joly in turn had explained him how to rearrange his furniture to ensure happiness (“You've already placed your bed so that its head points to the south and foot to the north like I told you last month, correct?”), and Bossuet kept shouting 'objection' and pointing out the disadvantages of his partners' suggestions.

“Okay, I have one final solution,” Bossuet stated ceremonially after Feuilly had turned down yet another of their attempts at brightening him up. “You'll have to sleep with someone else.”

Feuilly nearly snorted beer out of his nose. He was never going to drink in the presence of Bossuet again. “What the actual shit?”

Joly was looking at Bossuet like he was the cleverest person in the universe. When he turned to Feuilly, his eyes had a dangerous shine. “Of course, why didn't I think of that?”

“Seems like we're going clubbing tonight, sweetie,” Musichetta beamed, not sounding the least bit apologetic.

“On a Tuesday night?” Feuilly asked incredulously. “I have an early class tomorrow.”

Joly gave his arm a sympathetic pat. “You're going through an emotional crisis, Feuilly,” he said in his best wannabe-therapist-voice. “You are allowed to make reckless decisions.”

Feuilly hesitated for a few moments, then went ahead and said it anyway. “I already did, though. And look how fucking well that went.”

The following silence, during which Feuilly was all too aware of three pairs of eyes staring at him, was interrupted by Bossuet clapping his hands together. “That's what we're trying to fix here,” he said.

“I don't see how me sleeping with someone else is going to change the fact that I slept with Bahorel and was suddenly not okay with him not taking it as seriously as I did,” Feuilly frowned.

“And that's your first mistake,” Joly shot back. “We know these things. We have our monthly marathon of under-appreciated romantic comedies, and let me tell you, sleeping with someone else is one of the oldest and most useful tricks in the book.”

“It's based on very simple logic,” Musichetta continued. “When you find someone else to occupy your mind with, you forget the person you were thinking of before. It's called a distraction. And it's very effective.”

Feuilly let out a deep sigh.

“So. Me, you, Musichetta, Joly and a club?” Bossuet inquired.

That was when Feuilly put his foot down. “No fucking way, I am so not going to go clubbing with you three. It's okay for the first ten minutes or so but then suddenly you either disappear to some dark corner to snog or just go home, and I'm not going to suffer through your abandonment ever again, last time was bad enough.”

“We'll text R to come along. You two can down shots and angst together until you find someone you can snog in dark corners,” Joly suggested.

"Are you out of your mind?” Feuilly shrieked. “If we asked R to come along, we'd have to ask Bahorel as well, because otherwise he would surely suspect something, and the whole point of your plan was to get me to stop thinking about Bahorel, and I'm definitely not going to stop thinking about Bahorel if he's coming clubbing with us.”

“Point,” Bossuet nodded.

“Yeah, we've all seen his dance moves,” Joly added. “Makes me question my sexuality, to be honest. You know, whether I could possibly, after all these years of strict polygamy, be exclusively attracted to bahorels.”

Sometimes, the three of them together could be a bit too much.

When they had finished laughing at the look on Feuilly's face, Bossuet was ready to deliver his counter argument, as per usual. Fucking law students. “So we'll ask Éponine instead. She'll be your winglady.”

“That wouldn't work either, people would just assume we're together.”

“Courfeyrac too, then,” Musichetta shrugged. “You can't go wrong with Éponine and Courfeyrac.”

“I thought you were on my side, you’re supposed to comfort me, not contradict me and make me feel even more miserable!” Feuilly protested.

Musichetta flashed a reconciling smile. “Trust me, we’re all on your side, but you're not doing yourself any favours by shutting yourself down and avoiding everyone. We just want you to be happy.”

Feuilly eyed her suspiciously. “And how is fucking a stranger going to make me happy? I hate one-night-stands anyway, I need the emotional bond to actually enjoy it. And Joly, if you write something about trust-issues to that pad of yours, I'm swear I'll rip it in two.”

Joly closed his pad quickly. “Sorry,” he said. “I guess we're not the best advisers after all. But we are your friends, and we want to help you as best as we can.”

Feuilly rubbed his temples. “And I'm sorry I lashed out at you, I know you're only trying to help and I really appreciate that,” he said, already regretting his outburst. “I'm thankful for your concern, I really am. I just don't feel like going out tonight. I don't feel like doing much anything, really. I think I'd actually prefer going home and lying in my bed and, I don't know, listening to sad pop music, anything but going to some club and trying to hook up with a stranger.”

The trio fixed a look of undisguised pity at him.

“Okay, we're letting you off the hook, but if you change your mind, we'll be there for you,” Bossuet said, reaching over the table and giving Feuilly's hand a squeeze.

“All you have to do is ask,” Joly nodded.

"I'll email you a link to all of my best and angstiest 8tracks mixes," Musichetta promised.

“Thanks,” Feuilly said as he stood up. “And don't worry, I'll be fine. I just need some time.” He threw the strap of his bag over his shoulder, waved his hand at the members of Les Amis who still remained at the bar, and walked down the stairs, across the café and out of the door to the dampening, darkening night.

* * *

When he arrived to his flat after what felt like the most depressing metro ride of his entire life, he knew even before hitting the light switch that he wasn't alone. Bahorel's heavy combat boots had been laid neatly beside the doormat and his leather jacket rather less neatly beside them. Feuilly cursed under his breath.

Bahorel's unannounced visits weren't exactly unexpected; they both had a spare key to each other’s apartments, in case one of them forgot or lost their own. Bahorel tended to violate Feuilly's privacy more often than Feuilly violated his, but that was simply because he had more time to spare; Feuilly’s timetable was always filled with work, studies and projects with Les Amis, and on most evenings, when he was finally done for the day, he preferred going straight home with no delay.

But it was not as if Feuilly minded Bahorel in his flat. It was easy and comfortable and _nice_ , coming home after an exhausting day to find Bahorel in his kitchenette, in the process of chopping vegetables or mixing couscous with lentils and spicy tomato sauce, the one based on the recipe he never shared, no matter how pathetically Feuilly tried to beg and bribe and blackmail him (“For fuck’s sake now, Feuilly, it has run in the family for decades, I'm not allowed to tell you!”). When Bahorel heard Feuilly come through the door he would grin over his shoulder, and the next thing Feuilly knew was that they were sitting at the table, their knees knocking together, steaming plates of food (and, every now and then, cans of cold beer) in front of them. No, Feuilly didn’t mind one bit.

Sometimes, like now, Feuilly would find Bahorel laying unceremoniously on Feuilly's futon, flipping through one of Feuilly’s well-loved books. On evenings like this, Bahorel looked far less threatening than usual, and, even though Bahorel might beat Feuilly into a pulp if he dared to voice such an opinion, even _soft_. Feuilly felt privileged to see Bahorel like this.

Currently Bahorel seemed to be examining a volume about deconstructed buildings of Paris, his posture relaxed but his brow furrowed. He was barefoot, and he had done his locks up in a haphazardly bun. He had even taken out his contacts, and thick glasses were perched on his nose, somewhat askew. That he was longsighted was hardly a secret, but to see him wearing his glasses was still quite rare. Some ago, Feuilly and Bahorel had spent one midsummer night sitting on the fire escape of the building where Bahorel had lived back then, smoking a cigarette after another. They had talked and laughed and waited for the sunrise, and when it finally arrived, they had watched how it had painted the rooftops golden and slowly waken up the whole city. Bahorel had told Feuilly that when he was in sixth grade, some incredible bastard had broken his glasses in the middle of a fight, and because of that he had actually managed to beat Bahorel, which was something that had never happened before. Bahorel had worn contacts ever since. “And he was such a lousy fighter too, you should have seen how he moved his legs, it was fucking terrible,” Bahorel had complained, but his eyes had been laughing. Feuilly had chuckled softly and pressed his shoulder against Bahorel’s, and Bahorel had grinned at him before silently offering him a cigarette. He’d taken it from Bahorel’s fingers, lifted it to his lips and breathed in, and then with absolute clarity he had realised that the person sitting next him was _his person_ , one that saw him and understood him, the best friend he’d ever had. The thought had been both soothing and exhilarating. Feuilly had grinned back at Bahorel, and as the sun crept higher and higher, he had sent voiceless thanks to the way the world had taken shape.

And now, as Feuilly watched Bahorel sitting on his bed, he suddenly realised with similar kind clarity that this was something he was not ready to give up.

“Fuck, this shit's depressing,” Bahorel said without lifting his gaze from the book.

“Tell me about it,” Feuilly replied, flopping down beside him.

“Look at this one here.” Feuilly leaned over to glance at the picture Bahorel was pointing at. “Who the shit was such a heartless motherfucking bastard to have the nerve to tear this beauty down?”

Feuilly couldn't help beaming at him. “Aaaww, you're all worked up over some bygone heap of bricks and mortar. Who would have thought.”

Bahorel glared at him, but the effect was slightly ruined by the corners of his lips tugging upwards. “Don't even try to sound casual, I can see dried tear-drops on these pages.”

Feuilly laughed, and who the shit cared if it had only been a couple of days, fucking hell he had missed this, this easy and inimitable way they were around each other.

“Not that I’m complaining, but what are you doing here?” Feuilly asked, glancing at his watch. “It's ten to twelve already, don't you have a class to attend in the morning?”

Bahorel let out a non-committal grunt. “What does it fucking matter, everyone needs a lawyer at some point of their lives, I don’t think missing a lecture or two will have a huge effect on my future career. Besides, should something important come up on tomorrow's lecture, I can always copy Marius’ notes.” He rolled on his back and there was no way Feuilly paid attention to the way his shirt rode up. No way in hell. After a moment of silence Bahorel continued, his voice exceptionally gentle, “Really, a few shitty classes are a small price to pay for getting to spend more time with you.”

Feuilly could feel his heartbeat pace up, and tried hard to regain control over his facial muscles as he replied, “You saw me only an hour or two ago, silly.”

Bahorel shrugged, not taking his eyes off Feuilly's. “Doesn't matter. Besides, you didn't even say hello to me, you barely even looked at me. That’s not fucking fair.”

Feuilly had to tear his gaze away. He could not be having this conversation. No matter what Bahorel’s words sounded like, he did not mean what Feuilly wanted him to mean, he had made that perfectly clear earlier. Feuilly was the one who was a complete fucking difficult idiot and had started to feel complete fucking difficult things, and that was something that had to stop, period.

“I'm sorry,” Feuilly whispered. “It's been rough few days, I promise I'll be back to normal in no time.”

“I don't give a fuck about normal,” Bahorel remarked. “I do give a fuck about you, though. And I don't want something stupid to come between us.” He reached out and combed his fingers through Feuilly's short curls. Bahorel had a habit of frequently ruffing Feuilly's hair, but it was hardly ever like this; slow, lazy strokes against his scalp. Feuilly could have melted into Bahorel's touch.

There were only so many things Feuilly could do simultaneously, and it was simply impossible to a) remain still when Bahorel kept stroking his hair, b) look Bahorel in the eye and c) not spill his heart out and very likely ruin their friendship for good. Feuilly had to settle for options a and c.

Despite being still stunned, he managed to open his mouth and reply: “I give a fuck about you too.”

The silence that followed could have lasted only seconds, or then even hours, but when Feuilly at last looked back at Bahorel, Bahorel was still staring at him, a tiny smile playing at his lips.

“Do you mind if I sleep here?” he asked.

Feuilly shook his head. “Of course not, let me just get you another blanket.” He rose quickly, paced to the closet on the other side of the room, and spent an unnecessarily long amount of time going through the heap of bed clothes, tucking out a spare pillow as well. “I know you like to sleep with, like, at least four pillows,” Feuilly said when he had found all he needed and returned to his futon. “But I also know that you know I haven’t got that many pillows. So you'd better adjust.”

“Will do,” Bahorel said, flashing him a lazy smile. “Besides, I can always use you as a pillow.”

Feuilly turned to the colour of his hair, excused himself and hurried to the bathroom. He spent a good while sitting on the side of his bathtub, entertaining the thought of having a quick wank in the shower, or maybe just having a shower, an uncomfortable and freezing shower. In the end he decided against both options and just splashed his face with cold water. The flat’s walls and doors were paper thin, and there was no way Bahorel wouldn't notice and tease him about his post-orgasm state, and the same went with the cold shower. Not willing to give Bahorel any more reasons to torment him, he took off his jeans and brushed his teeth, dreading sharing his futon with Bahorel. They had done it before, of course, on multiple occasions, but now Feuilly felt like he didn't have a right to sleep next to Bahorel anymore, not after what had happened. Not after he had realised how he felt.

When Feuilly returned to his bedroom, Bahorel didn't tease him about taking his time in the bathroom, but that was simply because Bahorel was fast asleep, occupying not only his usual side but Feuilly's as well. After removing Bahorel's glasses and placing them on the book Bahorel had been reading, he sat on the corner of the mattress, carefully avoiding waking Bahorel up (not that waking Bahorel up was easily achieved, saying that he slept like dead was an understatement. Bahorel slept like he'd never been alive in the first place). He stayed still for a few minutes, watching Bahorel's chest rise and fall and listening to the sound of his slow breathing, painfully aware of how fucking creepy his actions were.

When he finally got up, he went back to the bathroom, pulled his jeans up and fished his phone out of his pocket. Before he had time to consider more carefully, he typed and sent a short message.

**From: Feuilly. To: Musichetta.**

_Does the offer still stand?_

The reply came almost instantly.

**From: Musichetta. To: Feuilly.**

_Ready when you are._

He walked briskly across his flat, and took one last look at the direction of his bed where Bahorel was buried under the blanket, snoring softly. Feuilly pulled his boots on and wrapped a scarf around his neck, opened the front door as quietly as he could and slipped out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Oh man, the hilarious rounds of angsty cliché drinking games you can play while reading this... :'D As always, comments are most welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

Feuilly could not blame his friends for breaking their promise or even keeping him waiting, because as it happened, Feuilly was the last to arrive at the Corinth. Although, to be fair, Feuilly was the one who lived the furthest from their meeting spot, so he could not be held into account for being late.

As soon as he stepped to the dimly-lit bar, he located the group he was looking for at a table near the door, which might have been surprising considering how crowded the place was, even though it was a Tuesday night. Feuilly had to be thankful for the fact that his friends were easy to find, but whether it was due to Joly's loud laughter, Musichetta's afro dip-dyed mint green, Bossuet's glittery jacket or Éponine waving at Feuilly like a particularly enthusiastic windmill, Feuilly couldn't tell. He was, however, slightly shocked to notice than instead of Courfeyrac, the gang had dragged Azelma with them. Not that her presence was unwelcome, quite on the contrary; Feuilly appreciated her dry sense of humour as well as her deadpan and ability to call out other people's bullshit. She had a habit of frequenting Les Amis' meetings in a regularly irregular fashion, often when one least expected her to. At the moment she was seated next to her sister, watching the people at the table near them, biting the straw in her drink and tapping her foot to the loud music blasting from the stereos behind them.

“Are you even legally allowed to be here?” Feuilly asked Azelma when he reached their table. “What are you, seventeen?”

The look Azelma fixed at him was bored and murderous in equal measures. “Oh, please, cut the crap, at least I tend to act like an adult instead of a thirteen-year-old.”

“She had her birthday last week,” Éponine hurried to explain. “And she was determined to go out tonight, I thought it best she come with us. So I can keep an eye on her.”

“It's probably going to be me keeping an eye on the rest of you guys.” Azelma said, still looking at Feuilly. “I would have said no, but I'm kind of interested in seeing how you'll handle this situation.” Her eyes gleamed.

“So I assume everyone knows what the situation is like?” Feuilly queried, and received fierce nods from the pair of girls. “Wait,” he continued, his eyes narrowing. “You're not trying to set me up with Azelma, right?”

Éponine and Azelma snorted in unison. “As if!” Azelma laughed. “I thought you were supposed to be smart. Me, a plaster for someone's pathetic man pain? Not in this lifetime. Or the next one either. I'd rather set my eyelashes on fire.”

Feuilly let out a relieved sigh. “Well, thank fuck for that.”

“I'm glad we agree,” Azelma nodded, causing her silver earrings to chink. “I'm more interested in setting up a betting pool. How long we'll be sitting here trying to set you up with someone, or something like that. And, since we'll probably be here for eternity, I have time to flirt with the super cute girl tending the bar. I bet I can get her to agree to go on a date with me in the time it takes you to even say hi to anyone.”

“Knowing my history at trying to chat people up, you're probably right,” Feuilly replied, grinning. Azelma grinned right back and kicked his calf playfully under the table.

When Éponine had brought Feuilly a glass of sparkling water from the bar (he was not going to drink for the rest of the evening, this was not something he was willing to do under the influence), they started to scan the crowd for possible candidates.

“So, what kind of standards do you have?” Éponine asked after she and Musichetta had suggested a few people Feuilly could try to talk to and Feuilly had shaken his head on each occasion. “And I'm not talking about people's looks because I expect you're above that sort of thing, fuck your conventional beauty standards and all that. I mean, has this thing with Bahorel scared you into total straightness? Or are you still willing to go with anything that's, you know, a living human being? Are there some kind of rules?”

“Haven't really thought about that,” Feuilly replied, shrugging his shoulders. “The plan was just to get Bahorel out of my head. Other than that, I don't really care.”

“I'm not asking you to open your soul to all of us,” Musichetta said slowly. “Well, I sort of am. What was it that made you change your mind all of a sudden? Earlier today you thought this was the dorkiest idea ever.”

“For the record, I still think this is the dorkiest idea ever, but when I went home I found Bahorel in my flat, and apparently he had decided on a sleep-over in my bed, and I couldn't handle it, especially after he started petting my hair and stuff. So I left him there and sneaked out.” Feuilly answered truthfully. “He will be furious when he wakes up in the morning,” he added as an afterthought. “I don't think I have anything that would bear even the slightest resemblance to breakfast. He's not allowed to touch my secret ice cream stash.”

He was not prepared for the look of utter astonishment on his friends' faces.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Feuilly asked, growing nervous under everyone's intense stares. “I know I'm not the only one with a secret ice cream stash, Joly has mentioned his several times and I swear I heard Combeferre tell Courfeyrac the other day about –”

“I'm sorry,” Éponine lifted his hands up, stopping Feuilly on his tracks. “I probably misheard. Did you just tell us that you, who recently found out that somewhere along the way you've fallen in love with your best friend –“

Feuilly drew a deep breath, ready to object.

Éponine seemed perfectly unimpressed. “Don't you dare to interrupt me, Feuilly. As I was saying, you recently realised you're in love with your best friend, and after finding him in your goddamn bed for fuck's sake, you actually had the nerve to run away from said best friend? You just left him sleeping there?”

“It wasn't like that!” Feuilly protested. “He sleeps at my place at least three times a week. He basically lives there. He keeps his spare toothbrush in my bathroom. I have a set of sheets reserved for him. I mean, sometimes we've even joked about moving in together because it would save a lot of time, you know. We wouldn't have to call each other every time we want to go out for lunch together and all that. So as you can see, leaving him in my flat was perfectly normal.”

Bossuet let out a choked noise, and Joly patted him on the back.

Feuilly rolled his eyes. “Come on, don't be so fucking dramatic, you all know what he's like.”

Musichetta sighed. “I hate to be the voice of reason here, but Feuilly, we really don't. It's not like he has a spare toothbrush at our place.”

Éponine nodded. “He's one of my closest friends, but I've never found him in my bed after I've come home.”

“Thank god, that would be creepy as shit,” Azelma added. “How do you handle this sleep-over thing anyway? Isn't your flat pretty frigging tiny? Or was that just a miserable excuse you made up because you didn't want to host the Monthly Trivial Pursuit night that one time?”

“No, he was telling the truth,” Joly cut in. “His flat is ridiculously small, it's only one room, really.” He turned to Feuilly. “You don't even have a couch, do you? You two have to share your futon, right?”

Feuilly thought it best to remain silent.

“Holy pants!” Azelma all but screamed. “Have you really thought about this at all? Have you two had an actual conversation about this thing? The pair of you are totally dating! Scratch that, you're probably, like, married already! Has he ever, you know, got on one knee in front of you and told you he wants to spend the rest of his life with you? With your apparent lack of observation skills I wouldn't even be surprised.”

“What the hell are you doing here, trying to pick up other people? You, my friend, are so taken,” Éponine grinned.

Feuilly shook his head slowly. “I'm here because those three,” he gestured at Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet, “said that the best option for me was to sleep with someone else.”

Bossuet cleared his throat. “That's when we were acting on outdated information. You didn't tell us you share a futon with Bahorel five times a week.”

“I'm fairly sure I said three times – “

“You said at least three times. I'm going to count that as five,” Bossuet cut him off.

“All things considered,” Joly said. “I think you'd better have a real conversation with Bahorel. I know you had one before, but apparently it wasn't sufficient, and you know, honesty is often recommended in these kind of situations.”

“He's not a mind-reader, and neither are you. Just tell him how you feel, and let him take care of his own part. He would never start to treat you differently, you know that,” Éponine reassured him, patting him on the back.

Azelma flashed Feuilly a mischievous smirk. “Yeah, leave all the cute girls at Corinth to me. Go home to your bff bf.”

“I don't even know what that means.”

Éponine shrugged her shoulders. “Well, clearly there are a lot of things you don't know.”

Feuilly took one last look at his friends before deciding that the best course of action was to do as they told him to. He was not afraid to admit when he was in the wrong, and really, if his friends did end up being correct, it would only work in his favour. He was up and out of the door before he had even completely registered what had happened during last twenty minutes.

For the first time in his Parisian life, Feuilly was thankful for the location of his apartment. It took him half an hour and four changes to get home by metro, and he needed every single one of those precious minutes to cook up a somewhat reasonable sounding strategy. His friends seemed certain that he had somehow accidentally managed to win Bahorel over, but even if it were so, Feuilly wanted everything to go as swimmingly as possible. He even dropped by the 24 hours open corner shop by the metro station to buy a pack of chocolate-filled croissants. Should things go from kind of awkward to pretty fucking disastrous, he could try to soften the blow with food.

Then again, pretty fucking disastrous would probably work better than swimming, if one wanted to find an adjective to vividly describe anything about his and Bahorel's relationship, starting from their first meeting.

It had been one of the first protests Feuilly had ever been to, the one against the raise of tuition fees, the one Grantaire swore he would not take part in because insert all of his classic arguments, including “it's not like you're making any difference anyway” and “it's just a fucking waste of time” and “that shit blows”. Even though Feuilly had been both disappointed and annoyed at Grantaire's utter dismissal, he had not said so; he had merely shrugged his shoulders and replied he was going whether it made difference or not. Feuilly had not been naïve enough to expect an instant change for the better; he had seen and experienced too much of the world's bitter cruelty to believe in miracles. And yet he was unable to live without hope for a better, more righteous future. He was unable to remain silent, unable to simply watch young people not unlike himself to give up their dreams of higher education because of their lack of money. And he was unable to give up without a fight. If Grantaire would not accompany him, he had stated solemnly, he would go by himself. And so he had.

Surprise number one had occurred when the crowd had been gathering in front of the École Polytechnique and Grantaire had been the first person Feuilly ran into. Surprise number two had occurred when Feuilly had noticed that Grantaire was not alone.

“Feuilly, this is Bahorel,” Grantaire had introduced the person on his right. The guy in question had grinned down at Feuilly, and wow, he was someone Feuilly recognised as a person he would much rather have as a friend than as an enemy because holy fucking shite, he looked like he could beat the living crap out of anyone who got on his wrong side. Feuilly's presumption had proved correct when Grantaire had continued: “We met at the gym. His right hook is a work of art, it's literally a knock-out! And a fucking fast one.”

Bahorel had offered his hand, and Feuilly had clasped and shook it, the grip short but firm. There had been no fireworks, but Bahorel's smile had been blinding, and the crowd had stomped and chanted like thunder, so maybe fireworks were unnecessary.

The protest had gone surprisingly peacefully, considering the size of the crowd and the amount of sour-looking officers around them. In retrospect, perhaps a riot would have been closer to their style; a manifesto to their friendship, one could say. When they had been stomping their feet and shouting angry slogans, Bahorel had commented on the sheer tragedy of the lack of physical fighting. No matter how much Feuilly believed in expressing opinions in a radically non-violent manner, he had genuinely felt sorry for the guy. 

As it happened, the only drama they faced that day was when Feuilly stumbled on a plastic bottle someone had dropped, and came close to falling flat on his face. More than anything, it was awkward, because really, who almost gets stomped to death by a protesting crowd because of a half-empty bottle of Mountain Dew? Grantaire still joked about that sometimes; Feuilly's woeful near-death experience and Bahorel, his knight in a shining if somewhat ruptured band tee. 

Because already then Bahorel had been right by his side, keeping him upright and on the move. Even as Bahorel had concentrated mostly on laughing his arse off at Feuilly's ungraceful manoeuvre, he had not let him fall. Not then and not ever.

After the protest they had decided to go for a pint together, and Bahorel had invited both Grantaire and Feuilly (much to Grantaires chagrin) to a meeting held by “this one group that's pretty cool, they were sort of organizing this thing actually”, and that was where it had all begun.

“And this is where it has led me into,” Feuilly thought as he waited for the lift in the hallway of his apartment building. “It's well past midnight and I'm standing here, holding a plastic bag filled with his favourite kind of breakfast food, ready to confess, what, my undying love for him? For fuck's sake now.”

When he stepped into the lift and fished the key out of his messenger bag, he thought: “And I wouldn't have it any other way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the cliffhanger, but I just hated the fact that I hadn't posted anything in ages and felt like I needed to update, even though the fic is not completely finished. So. What was originally supposed to be the final chapter is now divided into two chapters. Because of this, this chapter is also a bit shorter than the first two. I suck. But I hope to find time to finally complete this fic as soon as I can. Thank you for your patience, you are all lovely!


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